Posts for June 8, 2023 (page 8)

I’m left reeling after what you did to me

My mind can’t put the pieces together to make sense of it all

I jolt awake from nightmares about you with a tear stained face

You left scars in the wake of your touch that still haven’t faded

The smell of my vomit still lingers in my nostrils

I still can’t get myself to keep food down

Searing pain behind my eyes

Like they would rather explode than ever see you again

It feels like you made me sick on purpose, left me in a feverish haze

It feels like you’re still in the room with me, just watching me suffer

It feels like I’ll never be able to recover from you

-you haven’t put your hands on me in six years and I can still feel you

Sultry summer night,
he croons, “fancy we
should meet like this”

“I’ve come to kill you”
is her mating hiss,

Cocky smooth,
quite debonair,
he smiles and combs
his single hair,

Scuttles close,
offers a gift,
three newly
chewed houseflies.

Obviously not impressed,
she rolls her
compound eyes,
and sighs.

Oblivious to this,
still, he feels so wise,
assures her that
he’s not
like other guys

even as
he fixates on her
verdant thighs.

she stoops,
turns round,
takes him inside,
then just as quick
she says, “good night”

puzzled he asks,
“But first, perhaps
a kiss?”

“Of course, lover”
she does oblige

then
chews

spits

Contradictions slicing
This could be enticing

Here and there
What’s full or bear?
Broken, intact
Fiction or fact?

Me and you
Start and through
Empath’s heart;
Codependent’s part 

Narcissist’s cold;
Gaslights bold
Structure, pieces
Ownership, leases 

Birth then death
Given or test?
Pages with words
Silenced, unheard

Lovely
Ugly
You
Lue
Me
Free

Sifting through a plastic tote
hunting for a photo I wanted
to share with a friend,
I found a postcard
my father had sent to his mother.
A scene from the western US.
No writing, just his initial: “E.”
Cold.  Especially to his mother.
Why have I kept it all these years?
Do I really need a reminder
of how he treated us, 
his family?

there is nothing here yet
the poetry of mechanical things
is sparse, is partish, is stark

the manual for the
mec 600 jr shotshell reloader
says to use a heavy oil from time to time

bags of empty hulls, once primed
for explosive times on the skeet field
sit in piles like tubes of red lipstick

new begins with a formula:
eject the old primer,
seat a new one, load powder

place the wad, drop the shot,
pre crimp and final crimp—
it makes an asterisk

*this stands for missing information 

I used to tell Ellen early on
my heart hurts.
I’d left a sanctioned life,
an approved life,
I’d permanently abandoned
the life I’d been given.
I remember a time sitting
on the floor of the hallway
going through hand-embroidered
linens I’d been given as wedding
presents and bursting into tears
that seemed to erupt from
nowhere.  I knew I’d hurt
and mystified those close
to me.  The effect on my
young children unknown.
I only knew I had to leave.
I had to choose the authentic
life for me.  Only then could
I own my bone marrow, breathe
into the depths of my lungs.

Everything’s lopsided in this dream. A cockeyed grandfather clock with no pendulums, time stopped at 5 minutes until 6 o’clock. A tall, crooked window through which you view a red roof and a brown tile dome, both perfectly straight, or are they askew, the window level? Books lean in a shadowy alcove on a wall frieze of fuzzy shapes and colors, or is that the mural of what the girl asleep on the velvety couch is viewing? She looks cold in her snowflake stockings, miniskirt, tank top. Is she dreaming a lover to cover her? On a nearby table, a Victrola phonograph with a blue horn waits for him to touch the stylus down, start the music.  

~ Inspired by David Martiashvili’s digital art Sleeping Girl

So many people are leaving
Leaving red states,
Leaving small towns,
Leaving dangerous laws,
Leaving… us.

Who’s us, you ask?
The trans kids who aren’t famous
The poor people who can’t move
The homeless youth
The bullied kids
The ones who need you most.

But…
If everyone seems to be leaving
And telling me to flee when I can’t
Leaving this state even more red
Red… blood stain red…
Then… what do we do?
Panic?
Hide?
If you just tell us that we leave or die,
Then…
What do we do?

I’m left,
Stuck,
Between a closet door and a gun,
Closet door locked behind me,
I’m too out to go back.

It’s like I’m at the bottom of a hole,
With people climbing ladders
And pulling them up behind themselves
Then telling us to climb up too,
Before walking away.

What am I supposed to do?
Don’t go back in the closet,
Don’t stay out of the closet…
You’re telling me I have a death sentence
And not helping.

I sometimes feel as though, at this point,
With both sides telling me
“You’re supposed to be dead”,
I should just…. give in.

But I wont… because, in a lot of ways,
We’re braver than you.
You, privileged and seemingly unaware.
We stay here and fight,
While you run.
We stay here and discuss,
Teach,
Love,
While you hide.
We refuse to leave
Because we are strong.
Trans youth,
Queer youth,
The walking dead who won’t quit.

A.  

My dog is a pure-
bred German Shepherd—
champion bloodline.    

B.  

My dog is a mix
of the canine gene pool.    

B.   

Your dog
attacks the UPS
man. The
UPS man throws
my dog a ball.    

A.  

That ball you bought
from the dollar
store is dangerous.    

A.  

And that rawhide
she slobbers on
is wrecking
her gut biome.                 

B.    

My dog
stays
in her own
yard.                                                                                                                                            

B.  

And she calls
your dog
a crazy bitch.    

A.  

My dog
earned an A
in obedience
school!

And now Pat Roberton’s dead
A sign? 
Blow, Gabriel, blow.